


The Grey Day

by shirleyholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingerfucking, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: John and Sherlock want Molly in bed with them. Humorous but ultimately irresistible courting ensues. Molly's POV would be awesome.<br/>.......</p><p>“Miss Molly Hooper,” he said and his voice had this deep, indulgent sort of undercurrent that reminded her of melted chocolate. Though that was very cliché, wasn’t it, she thought, a bit dazed by his proximity. Saying his voice was like melted chocolate. Sounded like one of her mum’s old romance novels. </p><p>His eyes were like sunlight on a calm ocean. </p><p>Shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grey Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [songlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/gifts).



> This is really just gratuitous smut, as prompted by the lovely Songlin. There IS some alcohol involved but really not enough to even be tipsy, I promise. 
> 
> Also had to do some severe editing, as one shouldn't write threesomes at 3am, apparently. Too many damned limbs to keep track of.

Molly wasn’t having a good day. Well—she wasn’t having a BAD day either, per say, it was just one of those god-awful in between, greyish sort of days where the corpses were very dead and her new jumper, the one with the strawberries, had a coffee stain on the collar and she couldn’t think of a single bad pun to cheer herself up. And on top of that, she’d recently come to the rather depressing conclusion that she wasn’t really suited to being the mad cat lady-type. It was lonely and she wasn’t all that mad anyways and dammit, she almost missed Jim. At least there was wine and Glee then and even some fumbling about on the couch and none of that was really the same without him. 

Not that she did that last bit by herself. The fumbling about on the couch part. 

Well, not often anyways and she didn’t fumble, thank you very much. 

Sherlock chose that moment to barge into her lab. She knew it had to be him before she even saw him, because she was thinking about sex and he had a bit of a gift for turning up whenever she was thinking about sex. It was maybe the universe’s way of having a good laugh at her expense and well, at least somebody was having a good laugh, because she certainly didn’t think it was very funny.  


And sure enough, within seconds he was whirling through, this infuriating, gorgeous, unattainable man. He practically reeked of sex, if one could possibly reek of sex while still smelling firmly of chemicals and tea and expensive shampoo. 

And he wanted something. 

She could tell, because he was sliding up to her now and fluttering his eyelashes. He looked terribly excited and terribly delicious, all windswept arrogance and sleek poshness and she was already resigned to the fact that she wasn’t going to be able to say ‘no’.  


Maybe on another sort of day, she’d have been able to resist him (and never let it be said that Molly Hooper wasn’t an optimist). But today was a grey day and on those sort of days, it was nice to pretend that she was just a little bit needed by Sherlock Holmes. 

“Miss Molly Hooper,” he said and his voice had this deep, indulgent sort of undercurrent that reminded her of melted chocolate. Though that was very cliché, wasn’t it, she thought, a bit dazed by his proximity. Saying his voice was like melted chocolate. Sounded like one of her mum’s old romance novels. 

His eyes were like sunlight on a calm ocean. 

Shit. 

“Molly?” he asked, cocking his head in a mildly concerned manner. He took a step closer and there now, that was the last bit of her sanity gone. 

“Your eyes—“ she blurted out. They’d changed to light blue in the florescent lighting and she bit her lip, hard, before she could say anything else terribly embarrassing. Luckily, at that moment, a gruff voice cut her off.

“Don’t terrify her Sherlock, we’ll never get anywhere if you do that.” She looked about desperately and then sighed in relief. John was good. John was reliable and peaceful and NORMAL and—she froze. Because his hand was resting on the small of Sherlock’s back (very low on his back) and it was all a bit intimate, even for them, wasn’t it? Did ‘just friends’ do that? Well, clearly they didn’t, she knew that—she had some friends, she wasn’t that pathetic. But the thing was that it was Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. And really, who knew what they did?

Sherlock followed her gaze, to where it was still fixated on John’s hand (and she really ought to look away, she was being rude, but was he rubbing Sherlock’s back now?)

“Oh,” Sherlock said. He looked bored. Bored and beautiful, because, might as well face it, her life sucked like that. “Yes, John and I shagged. We have been shagging regularly for the past month, April, wasn’t it John? I propositioned him and he was rather more keen on the virginity thing than expected by my calculation—Though of course, such things do depend on how, precisely, one is to define it, as virginity as a concept it rather fluid--What?“

John glared.

Molly squeaked. 

“Sherlock,” John said finally, when it became obvious that Molly wasn’t really capable of adding anything more than guppy faces to the conversation at this point--“There such a thing as too much information, you know? And I didn’t shag you because you were a virgin, you git, I shagged you because--”

“Well, we can’t just proposition her without any background John,” Sherlock said, scandalized. “She’d say no without thinking about it and you can tell she hasn’t had a proper lay in months. Nor is she expecting one in the foreseeable future, judging by the state of her collar.” 

And now Molly really hoped she wasn’t supposed to be contributing anything, because—

“So by proposition, you mean—“ she began, aware that her neck was a flamboyant shade of red by this point. “As in—well. You know. Not like—not like- not a real proposition or anything—“

Oh, well done, she thought miserably. But they couldn’t possibly mean what she thought they did anyways. She was just sexually frustrated and god, didn’t she just ever need to go buy a vibrator and lock herself in the bedroom before she did any more damage with her repressed cat-lady hormones. 

 

“We’re clean,” Sherlock offered, a this critical juncture. “Both of us. And you are too, I pricked you the other day. Oh and John is very good with his mouth.” 

Oh god. Oh my god they did mean what she thought they did.

“You’re mad,” she stuttered. “You want—you want—hang on, you PRICKED me?“

John cleared his throat and stepped forwards. He was a bit red about the ears himself at this point, but she supposed she couldn’t be talking. Still, she felt a bit betrayed. Here she thought he was sweet and safe and then he’d gone and started shagging Sherlock and proposing threesomes and how was that fair, really? 

“Molly,” he said peaceably. “We’re not talking about anything just yet. Just—how about you come over for a cup of coffee yeah? And we’ll take it slow from there.”

He was so kind looking, standing there in his cuddly jumper, with his lovely blue eyes. Why had she never noticed what nice eyes he had? She ought to say no though—but what was she even saying no to? Not to this soothing, attractive man. And it was just coffee, right? What could possibly go wrong with coffee?

“Oh, okay,” she said, giving him her hand. 

“Coffee. Coffee sounds good.”

………

Molly had gulped down her coffee so fast she was afraid that she’d done some permanent damage to the back of her throat. She was sitting on the sofa in 221B, with John across from her in his armchair. 

“More coffee?” he offered. 

“Something stronger, if you’ve got it,” she surprised herself by saying. “Please,” she added, as an after thought. 

“Oh for god’s sakes,” Sherlock muttered. He was perched on the arm of John’s chair, typing away on his phone. She wondered if he took it to bed with him and then promptly had to squash all the subsequent images that decided to plaster themselves over her already over-worked brain. 

John threw him a quelling look as he returned with a bottle of wine. “Look Molly,” he began, smiling gently. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. You can walk out of here right now and no harm done see? It’s not a big deal.”

“So wait,” she interrupted. “You want—you want me. Both of you do.”

“In a manner of speaking—“

“You want me in your BED. “

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “John and I have a very fulfilling relationship, if that’s what you’re asking. We simply thought it might add a new dynamic to the bedroom.“

“But you’re GAY.”

“Categories,” Sherlock muttered. “Categories are dull.”  


John placed a hand on his—boyfriend’s?—arm. “It was just meant to be a bit of fun, is all,” he explained. “But you’re clearly not—Molly, it’s fine. It’s all fine. Have a glass of wine, we can watch a movie—“

“No, wait,” Molly said. She chewed her bottom lip and stared at Sherlock’s hands, still flitting gracefully over his Blackberry. “You mean sex? No strings attached? With the both of you?” 

“Obviously,” Sherlock snapped.

Molly grabbed hold of the wine bottle and took a swig straight from the lip. The alcohol was sweet and fiery as it went down, expensive and smooth, and there was no way it was working that fast, but it gave her the courage she needed. 

“Yes,” she said. “Yes—please. I don’t want to be a lonely cat lady and it’s been such a grey sort of day.” 

Sherlock and John exchanged baffled glances. John was the first to recover.

He offered her his hand and she took it, gulping a little at the enormity of what she’d just done. But his eyes were so kind.

“Molly Hooper,” he said kindly. “Will you come to bed with us?”

Hell yes. 

……………  
Sherlock pinned her to the wall as soon as they entered the bedroom. “What do you want, Molly?” he asked. She shook her head helplessly. 

Everything, maybe. 

“Shall I tell you?” he purred. “You like being held down. You like being fucked and titillated right to the point of orgasm, over and over again.” She gasped and he smiled, a roguish smile that probably meant she was in deep, deep trouble. 

“And you like my fingers, don’t you Molly?” 

He slid down to his knees, caressing her breasts and stomach with his hands in a feather light touch. And then they were at her knees and god yes, he was right, she loved them—long, artist’s hands, pale white and delicate. They rose up until they hit the hem of her skirt and then he looked up and caught her eyes and he didn’t break eye contact, not as her skirt went up and up, sliding past her thighs. 

She wished desperately that she’d worn pretty underwear or anything, really, that didn’t have little kittens on it. And sure enough Sherlock grinned as he ran his fingers across the top of her panties, looking up at her through his thick eyelashes. 

But she didn’t have long to dwell on it. Because John was next to her, one arm snaking around her waist to hold her up and she realized her knees had been quivering.

“John—I—“ 

“Shh—“ he soothed. “It’s alright.” His mouth descended on hers, warm and sweet and tasting of wine. And Sherlock had been right--he was—fantastic, his lips firm and demanding. One hand worked its way up to her breast and massaged it gently through the strawberry cardigan and his tongue delved deep into her mouth, delicious and naughty as it explored. 

Sherlock’s fingers slipped inside her waistband. They stroked tenderly through her pubic hair, until they hit---she let out a strangled moan, causing John to pull away. He looked down disapprovingly at Sherlock.

“We’re overwhelming her,” he said pointedly. Sherlock shrugged and drew his hand back. He popped his fingers in his mouth, licking and sucking around them and she could feel her eyes widen. 

“Oh my god—“ Molly wasn’t swaying. 

Of course not. Optimist, remember?

“Here. Bed,” John ordered. She obligingly allowed herself to be tipped onto it, her legs hanging off the side, her panties still tangled about her ankles. “Good girl,” he said, his voice softening. “Here, you just relax, all right? Let’s get those pants off.” 

She nodded and hastily kicked them away, the pink-laced edges disappearing into some dark corner. Well, good. She really wouldn’t mind if she never saw the damned things again.

John ran a hand between her thighs, pulling down her skirt, and she spread them, letting her head fall back against the bed.

“Good,” he murmured. “Very good.” She concentrated on him, as he unbuttoned her cardigan and then her shirt, exposing her to his soft gaze. Something rustled near her thighs. Inquiring fingers slipped inside her without any foreplay and she gasped as a warm, wet sensation tugged at her clit. She didn’t know if she could look down, but she knew what she’d see—Sherlock’s curly head between her thighs, one hand resting on her hip, the other inside her, fucking her on his fingers, his mouth sealed tightly around her. He shifted until her legs were over his shoulders and plunged in deeper and she choked off a moan.

John smiled and slid into place against the headboard. He took her head into his lap and leaned over, teasing, just a little, over her nipples, until she bucked up, desperate, and then he took her in hand, pinching and squeezing her round breasts.

“Oh my GOD—“ she said again. She raised her hand and put it on Sherlock’s head, grasping his lovely, thick hair and grinding down onto his face.

“Oh, you must be so wet,” John breathed. “I want to taste you, Molly.”

“Now?”

“Later,” he promised. He kissed her again and now Sherlock was licking her open in broad, wet stripes, three fingers firmly tucked up into her. He broke off to kiss her inner thigh, his fingers sliding out to rub firmly against her clit and alright that was a bit—a bit better than fumbling and—Sherlock flicked his eyes up to her face and his hands slid out to press against the planes of her hips, holding her down as she cried out and arched her back.

She slumped back, limp, and John let her go, soothingly rubbing a hand into her hair. Sherlock crawled up next to them, his lips damp and—god, she knew what with, but she couldn’t actually think about it right now, thank you very much. 

“How about a break?” John asked her and she nodded gratefully. But Sherlock just leaned over her, his hand sliding up John’s bare chest to hold the back of his neck. And then they were kissing, furiously, desperately over her. Sherlock allowed John to wrench him back by the hair and lick his lips and his neck and she realized, suddenly, that John was tasting her off of Sherlock’s skin— like he’d promised.

“You taste quite fine, as such things go,” Sherlock broke away to assure her. “Here--“ His fingers slid between her lips before she could ask, rather indignantly, just WHO he was comparing her to, and she suckled on them, his middle and his index fucking her mouth as John undid him. Sherlock groaned, the fingers sliding out with a wet pop as his shirt fell off of pale shoulders and pooled about his elbows. He tried to move his hand to take it off properly, but she grabbed it, pinning it down. 

“You’re lovely,” she told him honestly and then, when he flushed a delicious shade of pink, wondered why she’d never gotten up the courage to say it before.

Emboldened, she reached for his trousers, pulling down the zipper and the pants and squeezed him. He was hot and heavy and already so hard in her palm and he moaned, his long neck tilting back. No, he really was lovely- there was no other way to describe the smooth expanse of muscled chest, the tight buds of his nipples. John caught her looking. 

“He is gorgeous, isn’t he?” he asked innocently. “Here, watch this—“ And he rubbed vigorously over one nipple, his mouth descending over the other peak. Sherlock gasped and fell back against the bed, writhing, and Molly flushed at the image he made, all wanton and splayed. John crawled over him and straddled his chest, wringing out endless little noises as he lovingly pulled and pinched. Finally, he sat back up, his face flushed with arousal. 

“Do you want to be fucked?” he asked bluntly. His eyes never left Sherlock’s slack, panting face, but she knew he was asking her. “Your choice--either one.”

“I—“ She couldn’t decide. John would be gentle and more experienced, but she’d been dreaming of Sherlock for years, forever it seemed like. Predictably, Sherlock decided she'd been musing long enough after about 30 seconds. 

“Come here, Molly,” he said. His head fell to the side, the eyes still closed, and his hand snaked around her wrist. 

She leaned forwards on all fours, her hair falling over his face. And she kissed him, the perfect bow of his lips and the salty-sweet taste of his mouth opening under hers. His hand cupped her head, carding through her loose hair. “Mine,” he said flatly, laying his claim, and well, that was a bit thrilling, she wasn’t going to deny it. He kissed her again and then turned languidly back to John, a question in his eyes. 

You guys start,” John told him fondly. He got off the bed and began to strip. Sherlock shrugged and turned back to Molly. She leaned over his lap this time and pulled down his pants so that she could kiss his cock and he gasped in surprised as she teased him, licking his shaft and sliding a hand in to feel the weight of his balls. And then she froze as a warm hand stroked her arse.

“Don’t worry,” John said, having apparently come over to the other side. He rubbed his fingers across her wet, exposed cunt and she moaned around Sherlock’s cock. His hands tightened in her hair, keeping her down and then John’s mouth was on her from behind and she rocked between them. God, she ought to have been embarrassed (but they were really a bit beyond that by now, weren’t they?) John slid his hand under her belly and she reluctantly let go of Sherlock, flipping herself over so that her head lay in his lap. John stroked her, just enough to keep her wet, as Sherlock explored her body with his hands, until she was whimpering. 

“Oh just fucking get on with it—“ she finally snapped, after what felt like endless torture.

Sherlock slid out from under her and her head fell back against the pillows. He came around and settled over her on all fours, his elbows by her head, his cock thick and long where it hung between his thighs. She’d wanted this—she’d fantasized about it, but never quite like this, no. She took hold of him and gave him two firm strokes, before tilting up her hips and guiding him down between her legs. But Molly had had enough of them being teases—she could tease too. She rubbed just the head of his cock over herself for a bit, letting him feel how wet and open she was.

“Stop it,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth and she laughed triumphantly 

“Your fault,” she told him. “You’re such a horrid tease, you know that? Always, always teasing, you walk into that damn lab—”

“Molly,” he gasped and she finally let him slide in and fill her completely.  


It was a bit tight (it had been far longer than she wanted to think about) but then he was kissing her—not gently and masterfully like John, but sloppily, desperately, one hand spread across the side of her face as he thrust inside her. 

She could see John out of the corner of her eye, watching them as he sat, naked, against the headboard, but no, she wanted him here. She liked being the center of attention for both of them and he could just damn well indulge her for a bit. He smiled, as if he knew what she was thinking and came over to grasp her outstretched hand. His eyes fell to where Sherlock was sliding in and out of her body. 

“You can take more, can’t you?” he asked her and she nodded, biting her lip. He leaned over her and touched the base of Sherlock’s cock, slid down to where they were joined, his fingers exploring the tight skin where it stretched around Sherlock’s cock. 

“John,” Sherlock groaned. He tilted his head to the side and kissed him over her. John’s touches were deliberate and sure and he slid a finger in right alongside Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock moaned at the sensation, his head falling to hang heavily between his shoulders.

“More?” John asked them innocently. Molly didn’t know if she could take more though (she felt awfully full) and she was just about to voice that opinion when John winked at her. 

“Look at me,” Sherlock commanded, his eyes wide. “Just—keep looking at me.”

She pulled him down for a kiss and he obliged, his plush lips open against her own, their tongues twining around each other. And then he tensed suddenly and pressed his forehead to her shoulder.

“What—Sherlock?” But she could see John over his shoulder, his hand disappearing out of view and suddenly she knew. Oh well, that was—all right, of course, but—

“But I can’t SEE,” she complained loudly. “I want to see.” 

John leaned over and rubbed Sherlock’s back and she could hear the squelching as his fingers fucked Sherlock open.

“Tell her, Sherlock,” he suggested, his voice low. 

“I—“ Sherlock bit his lip, looking a bit embarrassed. 

“Go on, love.”

“It’s—I’m--full,” Sherlock began, a bit shakily. “Two fingers, but I’m very-- tight---“

“Yes, you are.“

“A third now—“

“Move,” John told him. He leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock began thrusting again, John's fingers still buried in him. Molly had never come from just this, but maybe it was the sight of Sherlock coming undone over her, moaning, or the hot rush of his release in her, but she was arching up again, her arms around his neck as she shuddered.

He slumped over her and she rubbed his shoulder soothingly, dazed.

“That was—oh god,” she said, when she could finally speak. 

“Brilliant,” John agreed. He was sitting on the bed again and she wondered why she’d never noticed exactly how attractive he was under all those bulky jumpers. Still pretty muscled and tanned and his cock was nice and thick and still hard as it lay against his stomach, oozing pre-cum.

“But you still—“ She wanted to crawl over and taste him for herself, but Sherlock was a heavy weight on top of her and she felt exhausted, suddenly. 

“Don’t worry about it,” John said. “Just relax.”

“But—“

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her. “We manage, you do realize,” he said with a grin. And then he rolled off of her and landed on his back, boneless against the mattress. He placed one foot flat on the bed, spreading himself, and beckoned to John. 

That was apparently all the invitation John needed. He lifted Sherlock’s arse onto his lap and pressed into his slick, open hole. Sherlock reached for him and they kissed languidly, with the ease of two people who knew each other very well. 

“Too sensitive?” John asked quietly. 

“No—“ Sherlock took hold of John’s arse and pulled him closer, rocking him between his thighs and John kissed his neck and lips, his hand curled up in Sherlock’s hair. 

She could feel herself getting turned on again (she was bloody insatiable tonight, but it had been such a long time). She slipped her fingers down and rubbed them across her own clit, keeping time to John’s thrusts, the slick slide of him in and out of Sherlock’s body. 

“Come here, Molly,” Sherlock said again, suddenly. “Here, sit—here.“

She straddled his face, blushing and his fingers grasped hold of her thighs. His clever tongue wriggled into her this time and she gasped as it fucked her. She rocked on his face as he kissed her so very intimately and she was going to moan, very loudly too if someone didn’t-- John leaned over and silenced her with a kiss. 

And then she was coming again and she’d swear that she’d never come so hard in her life. 

………………

It was going to be awkward. Molly just knew it. Tomorrow morning, it was going to be awfully awkward, but right now, she was lying on Sherlock and John’s bed and she was too blissed out to care. 

“So that was a success, I take it?” John asked. He handed her the glass of wine she’d requested and climbed in next to her. 

“Yes—yes. Was it good for you?”

Sherlock leaned over from where he was lazily sleeping. “Not entirely horrid,” he drawled.

John smacked him. “Oh shut up, you idiot. It was brilliant,” he added to Molly. “I’m really glad you decided to try it.” 

She nodded, some of the euphoria fading as she realized that this was probably a onetime deal. 

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock said, craning his neck about to look at her face. “We can certainly do this again, if you’re amiable.”

“Oh—yes. Yes, I am,” she blurted out. “Just not—not every day or anything. But maybe every month or so. So I’ll still be the cat lady, but I’ll be the cat lady that has fantastic sex and I think I like that, see?” 

“Sounds like a plan,” John said, smiling warmly.

“Good,” she said, with a sigh of relief and John kissed her again, gently this time. 

The day, she noted as she curled her fingers through his hair, wasn’t entirely grey anymore.

More like a shade of—well, she couldn’t precisely think of it, with John drawing her back onto the bed, but it seemed like, whatever it was, it was distinctly more than just bearable.

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my attempt to rescue all my stuff from the kink meme before I forget about it-- though some of it is really just best forgotten. But first attempt at a threesome, I feel like I should preserve it for prosterity's sake-- or just for a laugh later, honestly, depending on how that turns out.


End file.
